Second Chance
by Gertrude-04
Summary: When a training session in the Danger Room ends badly, Gambit goes in search of the teammate who betrayed him. Third chapter up. Hank and Remy have a discussion on the roof.
1. Default Chapter

Second Chances: Chapter One

Legalese: none of the X-Men are my property, they all belong to Marvel.

A/N: this is a little ditty I found in one of my notebooks, half-finished. I finally spat out a sort of ending for it, though if you guys like it I'm starting to get inspiration for more chapters. So let me know if ya want more!

The lone man stood as still as stone at the end of the long wooden pier; the mists from the moonlit lake swirled at his ankles like long scraggly fingers trying to pull him down to the dank depths below. A lit cigarette hung from his lips, every so often a chunk of ash would break off and float down to the waters surface. The New York summer night was not cold by anyone's standards, but the warm breeze coming up from the South was not enough to stop the lean body from shivering. The man crossed his arms against his chill; he knew but did not respond to the fac that the coldness he felt came from within, and no amount of fleece pullovers or down-filled blankets could ease it. Despite the fact that there were few places in the open fields surounding the lake that someone could hide, he felt open, exposed, and entirely too vulnerable to his enemies, who at that point were everyone. Including himself. The sight of the night's stars reflected in the water did not quiet his mind or sooth his soul like in the past. He knew this was not because the bright pinpoints of light had dulled. They failed to lull him because he had gone to far; he was beyond being reached.

Remy LeBeau sighed as he dropped the burnt filter of the cigarette onto the dock, and crushed it beneath the heel of his boot. Never in all his twenty five years had he given in to the paralyzing thoughts of self doubt and self pity. And he had been given plenty of chances. But, he thought with a barely perceptible shrug, there's a first time for everything. It had been too easy to doubt himself after the events of the past year. His past, his intentions, his secrets...All had come under close scrutiny by himself and others, people he had once called teammates. While his words and actions of reparation seemed to have satisfied the most powerful of the others, his sub-conscious had not been appeased. Every time he closed his eyes for sleep or otherwise, he was returned with a flash to his own personal hell; endless blinding white snowdrifts, bitter and howling winds. But that wasn't even the worst of it. Thoughts of hatred, revenge, pity, betrayel; always piercing his carefully erected defensive walls like bullets from a gun, and ensuring he never got a moment's peace, or forgot what he had done. It was the worst kind of punishment possible, but Remy didn't want it to end. To live in peace would mean that what he had done was forgivable.

His head inclinded slightly to the right suddenly, as the low-pitch buzz of a well-shielded mind rubbed up against his senses. His brow creased in concentration. Although no sound of footsteps reached his ears, he listened intently, so to speak, to the snippets of emotions that reached him. He sensed immediately a deep rooted concern combined with a much harder to distinguish wariness. The corners of Remy's mouth turned up slightly. So the kind hearted doctor had decided to pay him a visit. He wondered briefly what the occasion was, what was so important that he had to come out in this weather.

Remy closed his red on black eyes softly, concentrating on another of his more useful mutagenic abilities, his keen sense of movement. He didn't want anyone to think they could sneak up on Gambit, professional thief who could steal the Crown Jewels right from underneath the Queen Mother's upturned little nose. He waited another half second, then without warning, threw himself into a well-formed back flip. He could sense the surprise of his visitor, as he dropped to the ground upon landing and swung his right leg out. Unfortunately, they had trained together for years, and his opponent knew all of Remy's little tricks. The other jumped lightly over the leg sweep, and in an incredible feat of agility, somersaulted over Remy's six-foot-two-inch frame, landing lightly behind him. A well placed but relatively gentle kick to the middle of his back sent Remy sprawling forward, crashing down onto the wooden dockboards. The impromptu sparring session, combined with his earlier cigarettes, proved to be too much for his still healing body. The rotten case of pneumonia he had been struggling to rid himself of came back with a vengence, and he dissolved into wet, chest rattling coughs. He gasped for breath as his body curled in on itself, heaving to clear his lungs of the sticky substance that plagued his every intake of air. Tears sprang automatically to his eyes; his fists clenched and reopened in a show of outright denial to give in. Though after several minutes of struggle, he was beginning to consider the idea of death by suffocation when he felt a soft pressure on his lower back. A kind hand, suspicously hairy feeling, took one of his fists, forcing it open. Although he could't make out any exact words, he could feel the warm breath on his cheek, the stiff whiskers tickling his ear, as a well cultured, accentless voice spoke soothingly to him. After several long seconds, during which the edges of his vision began to blur, his chest began to relax. Sweet, delicious oxygen rushed into him, and for an immeasurable amount of time, he simply lay there on the dock, a splinter of wood biting angrily into his cheek as he relished his breath. He opened his eyes eventually, and sat up slowly.

"Well, my young Cajun friend, it appears as though you have pushed yourself too hard."

Remy stared incredulously into the blue furred smiling face of Dr. Hank McCoy, kneeling beside him with one hand still on his back. He snorted, and rose gracelessly to his feet, swaying just slightly before regaining his balance.

"You be de one dat kicked me, Bete,"he said, brushing the imagined speck of dirt off the front of his duster.

Hank's smiled was all teeth and sharp canines. "Well, I never can give up the chance to knock one of you whippersnappers down a peg."

Remy rolled his eyes. "Whippersnapper? I'm not dat much younger den you." He grimaced as he rubbed his hand across the chest, breathing was still mildly difficult, and the ache in his lungs didn't make it any easier. "So what brings you down here at dis time, Hank, in dis weather?"

The doctor shot him a deadpan look. "Right,"Remy said quietly. "You t'ink Remy need a babysitter. He be down here at dis time, in dis weat'er, so you be down here too. Well, in case you didn' get de memo, Remy a grown man. He take care of himself jus' fine."

He turned sharply on his heel, and with his leather duster whipping around his lean body, stalked back towards the mansion. The angry gracefullness he was trying to pull was difficult with knees that felt like rubber, but he managed to be mildly successful despite certain setbacks. When Hank didn't follow immediately behind, Remy thought he had gotten through to the older man, and was finally going to be left alone. He should be so lucky.

"Remy, my friend, I'm not trying to babysit you." Apparently having recovered from whatever had rooted him in place, he caught up. The Cajun was selfishly satisfied to see Hank struggle to keep pace with his long stride. "I am simply worried by your health. It is what friends do."

That exclamation brought pause to Remy's steps, but he was able to reclaim his rythm with little difficulty. He was generally unaccustomed to the blatant acknowledgements of friendship and closeness that some of the X-Men were likely to give. He'd had few relationships in the past that weren't selfish in nature. "Friends also listen to each ot'er, don't dey, Bete?" It was a low handed tactic, he knew. But at that point, he was a little desperate for some quality alone-time. "Remy be fine, but de minute he feel like crying in his bourbon, you be first to know, eh?"

He reached the mansion, and swung open the sidedoor that led directly into the kitchen, which was thankfully empty. He'd only been back at the mansion for a week, and had miraculously managed to keep the confrontations to a minumum. Most of the residents were content to let him to his own devices; a sort of "you don't bother me and I don't bother you" kind of mentality that suited Remy just fine. There were a few, however, that had been perfectly comfortable voicing their disgust and hatred of him openly with no that for tact. It was that sort of treatment that Remy was more used to.

Although he could still not hear footsteps on the tiled floor, Hank's presence was as noticeable as a fly buzzing around his head. Irritating as hell, but there was very little that could be done without serious harm to the offending 'buzzer.' The doctor followed Remy out into the mahogony panelled hall, still assumedly thinking of his next approach. Remy didn't plan on being around to hear it, but a feeling he caught wind of from further down the hall stopped him so suddenly in his getaway tracks that Hank slammed into his back.

"Remy! Perhaps an indication of some kind would've-"

He stopped mid-sentence when he noticed the pinched look on the Cajun's face. A muscle in the right side of his jaw twitched. The hallway was dark, but through moonlight cast in by the uncovered windows, Hank could make out the silhouette of a tall, broad man with great feathered wings like an angel. Warren Worthington the Third. Undoubedly the reason for Remy's abrupt stop, and the look that he had just sucked on a lemon. The two had never really been close, and since learning of Remy's involvement in the Morlocke Massacre, Warren had found new ways and new reasons to hate Gambit.

By all appearances, Warren had been standing in the hallway with the sole purpose of confronting Remy. Hank wouldn't put such a thing past him.

"'Ello, Ange,"the Cajun said softly, nodding his head in acknowledgement. Although part of him enjoyed the tension and fights that their hatred of each other caused, a tiny, irrational part of him just wanted peace. After a life of conflict and difficulty, sometimes he ached for the easy comraderie that most of the team enjoyed. It had not existed before his secrets had come to light, though. He saw now reason for it to exist now. Of course, he would shave his head before he would divulge any of these thoughts to anyone living in the X-Mansion.

"Traitor,"Warren replied, in a casual, almost friendly tone. His gaze shifted to Hank for a beat, then narrowed menacingly on Remy. "Killed any innocents lately?"

The corners of Remy's lips turned up in what could only be described as a snarl. "Not lately, non. What about you? Teamed up with any mass murderers for a pair of wings in the past week?"

Warren's negative response was obvious and immediate. In this type of battle arena, Remy had the far greater advantage. He'd had a lifetime of experience pretending not be phased by insults, and coming up with suitable comebacks on the fly, if not for his mutantcy than for his low place in society. Warren, though, had only been doing it since his wings had sprouted. His high class life had shielded him from the worst society had to offer, whereas Gambit had seen and experienced most of it. Warren was unable to hide the flash anger behind a face made of stone as Remy had.

The New Orleans native nodded to himself. Winning one of their little spats was hardly fullfilling, but he did receive a strange kind of satisfaction from knocking Warren off his high horse. He spared Hank no glance as he brushed past a positively livid Warren on his way to the East stairwell. Remy heard the two conversing quietly and energetically behind him, undeniabley Hank pleading for some kind of peace between them. Hank had become a surprise advocate for Gambit since learning of his past, and generally argued on his side in any disagreements that cropped up. Even more surprising had been Logan. What he had given Remy couldn't quite be considered support, but the fact that that Cajun was still standing with all his vital organs safely encased in his body instead of spilling out a non-existent gash in his middle could only mean that on some level, the Wolverine understood what Remy had gone through. To know that a man like Logan wasn't an enemy was almost as good as knowing he was a friend.

Remy pushed open the metal door at the end of the hallway that led to the three story stairwell. He used to take those steps three at a time, arriving at the top slightly red faced but no worse for wear. With his current case of pneumonia, however, he'd be lucky to get up one flight without needing a break. By resting in the middle of each flight, and again on every landing, he managed to get to the third floor without spots clouding his vision.

His room was the first on the left, and he gratefully slipped inside, wincing at the loud creak that erupted from the unoiled hinges. Such an amatuer trick as keeping W-D40 away from his bedroom door surely wouldn't stop a professional, and it provided little peace of mind, but Remy indulged himself nonetheless. With the door safely shut and locked behind him, he slipped out of his duster and slung it on the leather wingback chair under the window. His room was dark and empty; just the way he liked it. An inky blackness that would've made a normal man blind, but provided perfect sight for Remy. About six months before his banishment in Antarctica, he'd finally convinced Xavier to spring for a pair of black velvet curtains. They blocked the light better than an eclipse, which was beneficial when a match gave off enough light to blind Remy for a minute or two.

So when he collapsed on his bed, still dressed in jeans and long sleeve black t-shirt, it looked as if the night was perfectly black, without a single star to brighten its sky. After his thoughts while down on the dock, it was a welcome vision. Sleep came easily, despite the threatening images nightmares he knew were on their way. He couldn't outrun them anymore than he could go without rest, and he was doomed to relive the mistakes of his past or at least six hours.


	2. Chapter Two

A/N: I really like the first part of this chapter, but the way it turned out kinda disappointed me. Lemme know what you guys think, good or bad.

The morning after his impromptu altercation with Hank on the dock, Remy woke up on the floor of his bedroom, tangled up in his sheets and stuffed halfway under his bed. Similar occurances had been plaguing his sleep since his return; he had come to in his closet, hidden inside the shower stall, tucked into a tight ball into the corner behind his chair. The worst had without doubt been when Jubilee had found him in the mainfloor mudroom, wearing nothing but his boxer shorts and cowering beneath a pile of coats. It had been difficult to convince her he was just looking for a deck of cards he had dropped, especially when his hands were trembling like he had palsy, and gallons of sweat had been pouring off his lean body. Lucky for him, she had been sneaking back in after a night at the movies, and wasn't willing to blow her own cover to turn him in.

Currently he bit his lip in frustration, and wiped the moisture from his forehead. He wasn't sure he could go on like this anymore. Going to sleep when he was never sure where he was going to wake up was wreaking havoc on his nerves. He was just waiting to wake up on the roof, or in the danger room. Still, the alternative to sleepwalking was possibly worse than the original problem. Letting the Professor and Hank into his mindset would be like letting everyone else in, and he didn't need that right now. Remy didn't want to have them thinking he wasn't a hundred percent when they didn't trust him anyway.

He untangled himself from the sheets and stood slowly. Thankfully, he had apparently left his bed under an hour ago; the painful cramps that usually made moving difficult upon waking in these strange positions weren't present. Scott had approached Remy the day before, suggesting that maybe it was time he got involved in the training sessions again. Remy took this to mean it was time to see if he could function in an intense fighting situation without killing himself or others. He was more worried he would be the one killed. Being surrounded by people who hated or resented him had been a primal part of his life for so long that he doubted it was effect his performance now. But he had thought, upon first coming to the mansion, that this would be the one place he would be free from all that. He should be so lucky.

He decided against a shower, and instead dressed in a plain white t-shirt, and thin black pants. Overtop this, he attached his worn fuschia body armour. He'd been criticized before for such a flagrant choice of colour, and couldn't honestly say why he picked it. Could be that it was the first set that crossed his eye, or there could be some deeper, hidden meaning that he couldn't grasp. Either way, the armour had saved his butt more times than he could count, and he wasn't about to risk his luck by changing it now. He tied his shoulder length auburn hair back in a tight ponytail, ensuring it would remain out of his face no matter what situation he found himself in. By the time he left his room, the shaking in his hands had dissipated, and he was feeling more like himself than he had in weeks. If he had've placed some stock in the idea of calm before the storm, he might've hesitated in his decision to join in the morning's training sessions. He might've been a bit more prepared for what was to come.

When Remy reached the Danger Room in the lower levels of the mansion, he was shocked to discover he was not the last to arrive. For possibly the first time since joining the team, he'd not only arrived on time, but also managed to keep his sarcastic comments to himself. He noticed Cyclops' eyebrows raise in surprise at this realization, and felt embarrassingly good about it. He took up a position near Logan, crouching on his haunches against the wall while they waited for the rest of the team to arrive. Training sessions varied wildly in the Danger Room, in the best way possible to prepare the X-Men for potential changes during missions. Some days one team member would be in charge of the logistics of the exercise, things like location, enemies, and pittfalls. Other days everything would be selected at random by the computer. When Remy glanced up at the control room, and could see only the telltale shape of the Professor in his wheelchair through the otherwise darkness, he knew that day was one of the latter. PRofessor Xavier was not always present at the sessions, but on the days when the entire team was involved in the exercise, he made a point to be there. Just in case.

The door to the Danger Room opened, and through it stepped Warren, and Bobby Drake. Both began greeting their teammates, and both froze comically when they noticed Remy against the wall, idley shuffling a deck of cards. The Cajun mutant offered them only a sardonic smile, and inclined his head slightly in their direction. Although he outwardly exuded the calm of a Zen master, his insides were churning with anxiety and nervousness. He knew he would have two fronts to keep an eye on, the one set up by the computer, and the one that existed in his own teammates. He wouldn't put it past anyone in that room, save maybe Logan, Cyclops and Hank, to take a shot at him when his back was turned. As happened so often in his life, he was on his own.

Cyclops quickly checked with everyone, receiving conformation that everyone was prepared, and nodded his approval at the Professor to start the program. A slight whirring could be heard, as the Danger Room conformed itself to the specifications sent by the computer. When the temperature started to drop, and everyone's breath could be seen in the chill, Remy stood, suddenly antsy. The walls, floor and ceiling whirled into nondiscript white, like in some kind of psychodelic dream, and finally coalesced into solid scenery. Endless white stretched in all directions, in snow and ice under their feet, washed out cloudy sky, and a mixture of sleet and snowflakes falling from the heavens. An unrecognizable mutant appeared in front of them, already in fighting stance. He shouting something to the waiting X-Men, surely some kind of threat, but Remy didn't hear any of it. There was a roaring in his ears, and his insides had frozen colder than the ground beneath him. Surely none of them would do something like this on purpose; send him back to the land that had nearly become his grave. He risked a glance up at the control room, but a moment later his spatial awareness alerted him, and he backflipped out of the area just as an energy blast melted the ground that had been beneath him. Several more mutants materialized around them, and the fighting broke out in earnest. He started forward, intending on intercepting the cat-like creature headed at Jean, but hit a patch of frozen snow and slid forward before regaining his balance and keeping himself standing. Remy felt something strike his upper back, and threw himself into a forward roll. When he turned to face his attacker, a collection of cards charging in his right hand, he wasn't all that surprised to see the area empty. He backed away from the mass fight slowly, as he felt his breath becoming heavy in his lungs. It was too much. The snow, the ice, the cold, _the memories... _and ontop of having to fight these imaginary enemies, to have to keep an eye out on his own teammates for fear of being knocked down by one of his own...He felt smothered suddenly, like he was drowning in the cold air, and was overcome by a desperate need to GET OUT. He looked frantically around the room, but knew there wasn't an escape. The doors wouldn't rematerialize until the program had finished, or the Professor hit the end button. He continued to back away as he heard a steady whistling sound, realizing with a start that it was his breath struggling to come in.

Logan, struggling nearby with a rock-man, noticed him not moving. "Hey kid!"he called out, over the noise of the battle. "You okay?"

Part of the Danger Room's safety procedures included a seperate system whose sole purpose was to monitor the life signs of those engaged in the program. Logan had to know that if anyone was really in danger, the Room would shut itself down. His concern went unnoticed anyway; Remy's hearing had faded away until it felt like he had cotton batting stuffed in his ear canals. His hands trembled so badly his cards fell to the snow, glowing with a partial charge. Even without full power, the resulting blast was enough to lift Remy several feet, and deposit him facefirst in a snowbank. That did it. Certain that he was going to die a horrible death if he didn't get out of that snow in that _instant_, he flew back from bank with a strangled gasp, and tripped over the fallen body of someone's opponent. Now fully ensconced in panic, he scrambled to his feet, while a frantic whining pierced the cotton in his ears, and he had enough sense of mind to hope it wasn't coming from him. The fighting slowly came to a stop around him, as everyone seeed to notice as a whole the effect it was all having on their Cajun teammate. Hank appeared to notice the symptoms present in Remy, and approached him slowly, one hand raised in a gesture of concern. The stainless steel walls of the Danger Room reformed around them, but it was too late. The damage to Remy's state of mind was too far gone at that point.

"Remy, my friend, it's just a program, you're perfectly safe."

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and with a yelp of fear, whipped around to knock Logan down with a solid punch to his chest. "Don' touch me!"he shrieked, flying back from the Canadian. The breath seemed to catch in his lungs as the pneumonia finally caught on to his erratic movements, and he bent forward suddenly, overcome by phlegmy, chest rattling coughs. He felt another hand on his lower back, and was able to offer little resistance this time. As it happened the night before, his vision started to blur around the edges, as he struggled desperately to catch his breath, and the strength left his knees as he fell to the floor. His eyes watered, tears not only of exhurtion but also frustration dripped down his face. Spots started to form before his eyes, blocking out the faces of his teammates. His chest ached with each spasm, his fingers clawed uselessly against the floor. The room tipped suddenly to the left, and the ground rushed up to meet his face.

When consciousness began slowly returning to Remy LeBeau, he became aware of two things; the first was the wedge currently being driven through his forehead, and the second was the razor sharp knives lining his throat. After a long moment of simply breathing past the pain in his chest, he started to toy with the idea of opening his eyes. Because of his high sensitive sight, he had trained himself to keep his eyelids closed until he was fully awake, which because of his thieving origins only took a minute anyway.

"Remy? Wake up, my friend."

A hand started lightly tapping his face, and he vowed that whoever belonged to it would soon find it missing. He reached up with an arm that felt like lead, and snatched onto the offending appendage. Prying his eyes open and blinking steadily past the bright spots, he glared Hank in the face. He was laying on the Danger Room floor, his teammates gathered closely around and watching him expectantly. Professor Xavier was on his other side, looking to Hank for some kind of direction.

"Oh, thank the maker,"Hank breathed, pulling his hand away from Remy to check his pulse. "You had us all quite worried for a minute or two."

"Only a minute or two? It felt a lot longer,"he tried to say, but what came out was a long croak, sounding not unlike the bullfrogs that lived in and around the lake.

Hank smiled jovially, and patted Remy's should lightly. "Your fit has no doubt damaged your throat. I'll need to get you down to the medbay."

'A fit? Is dat what dey call it?'he thought to himself. He started to rise, but Hank pushed and held him down much easier than it should've been. "You don't have to get up. I've sent Jean and Bobby to fetch the stretcher."

He shook his head emphatically. "I'm not going,"he forced out, past the knives in his throat and the elephant sitting on his chest. He pushed Hank's arm away, and managed to sit up with little difficulty. He noticed then Scott crouching to his left, next to the Professor, and Logan standing nearby, trying and failing to look nonchalant. The older man's apparent interest touched Remy in a way he didn't think was possible. Storm stood next to Logan, close enough to ensure he was alright, but not so close that anyone would mistake what she was feeling as concern. Warren was nowhere in sight. Neither was Rogue or Joseph. They were not missed.

Remy started to get to his feet, and shook off Scott's assistance with a hand that trembled too much for his liking.

"I'm fine,"he said, though the hoarseness of his voice and the swaying on his feet said otherwise. Hank and the Professor exchanged glances, then Charles whirred closer to the rest of the team. "I think that's enough for today, everyone. You're free to go."

Logan hesitated a moment longer than the rest of the team, before following them out the doors. Remy found himself alone with the Professor, Hank, and Scott. Three against one were just the kind of odds that made things interested.

"Remy, I think what you just suffered was a panic, or anxiety attack,"Hank explained softly, as though hearing the words spoken in a placating tone would lessen the impact of the thought behind them.

Remy shook his head emphatically. "Non. No way. Remy don't panic. Musta been de damn pneumonia." His voice seemed to be improving with every words he spoke, and although the pain was still there, it had lessened considerabley.

"Your coughing didn't start until after the program shut down,"Scott said, glancing at the Professor for conformation. "You were acting strangely before that."

Suddenly angry, Remy narrowed his eyes. Who were these people, these people he had barely seen in the past week, to worry about him? When he really needed help, when he thought he was going to die a frozen death, no one came to his aid. Why were they bothering now?

"You don't know anyt'in' about me, _mon ami._ So get de hell outta m'way."

Reluctantly, Scott stepped aside and allowed Remy to blow past him on his way out the door. He watched him storm out , then turned back to his two companions.

"Well, now, that won't do at all,"Hank said, a deep frown present on his face. "He needs medical attention, whether he wants to accept it or not."

Charles nodded thoughtfully. "Follow him, Hank. See if he won't change his mind. If you need my help, I'm only a thought away."

Hank hurried off, hoping to catch up with the Cajun before he became unreachable, as he was in the habit of doing. Scott turned slowly to look at the Professor.

"Charles, before today, I didn't think we had that kind of location in the computer."

The Professor frowned, then sighed heavily. "That's because we didn't. I would like you to run a diagnostic on the control room. See if any changes were made within the past twenty four hours."

"Wait, you think someone added that knowing this would happen?"Scott asked with incredulity. The thought that one of the X-Men would do something intentionally to hurt anyone, let alone another teammates, filled him with dread. He could see in the Professor's face that the notion bothered him just as well.

"I don't know what to think, Scott. But we have to check it out. For Remy's sake."

Scott nodded. As much as it troubled him to do so, he would follow the Professor's orders. He wasn't sure what he would do if he found incriminating evidence towards one or more of their team members. All he could do was hope that things would resolve themselves without anyone needing to take extreme measures.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: If anybody remembers this story, I'm sorry it took so long to update. I had the worse case of writers block in existence. As always, please let me know if you like, or dislike, this installment.

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Hank McCoy was fast. Even as a child, before his mutation had manifested, he'd won scores of first and second place ribbons in his school track and field days. He was always picked first for after-class games of soccer and football, only because his speed made up for his lack of coordination when a ball was concerned. Upon entering adulthood, and learning of his mutagenic condition, he had still taken it upon himself to maintain his shape and ability. For a while, it was for nothing but his piece of mind. After meeting Professor Xavier, however, his penchant for running and staying in shape had translated into another asset for the team.

Not one of his childhood ribbons could help him catch an upset and bothered Remy LeBeau, though. The man seemed to have given stealth and speed a new definition, and thus given Hank a new standard to judge himself by. He couldn't have possibly been more than five or ten seconds behind the younger man, but Hank discovered, as he wandered through the main floor of the mansion, there was no sign of him anywhere. Hank knew better than to check Remy's room; that hiding spot would be too obvious even for a small child playing hide and seek. It seemed an insurmountable obstacle, to find one man among the hundred acres of land upon which the mansion stood. A man like Remy, who could blend into the wallpaper if need be, made it exponentially harder. But concern for the Cajun motivated Hank better than anything else ever could, and so he kept up his search.

And once again, persistence seemed to have paid off when he passed the mansion's kitchen, and spied Jubilee crouching on the floor, scooping up a small mountain of spaghetti and meatballs. Her expression and whole demeanor could only be described as irate. He approached her cautiously; she had somewhat of a reputation as a butter fingers with the other students, and she became rather angry when confronted with proof of the nickname.

"Would you like some help, my dear?"

She whirled around on him in a way that made him wish fervently that his last will and testament were in order.

"You can start by stringing up that damn Cajun by his toenails," she snapped, before grabbing a roll of paper towels off the counter to assist in clean-up. Hank frowned, but didn't comment on her choice of language. Hanging out with Logan had not only affected her vocabulary, it had also made her temper much more potent. "He tore through here like the seat of his pants was on fire, and knocked me right down. Didn't even stop to apologize."

Hank glanced up to the open door beyond Jubilee, leading out to the slate patio off the kitchen. And just like that, he knew where Remy had gone. He dragged the garbage can over to Jubilee's side, and without another word left the kitchen. He should've guessed an unconventional man like Remy would've chosen an unconventional hideout.

He stepped onto the stone patio, and craned his neck to study the heavy wooden trellis that ran up all three stories of the mansion. For nearly anyone else, such a feat as climbing up an apparent flimsy structure like the trellis was a death wish. For a man of Hank's agility and grace, however, it was a walk in the park. He made short work of the great height, and soon stood looking out over the grounds that seemed to stretch on forever.

Hank eventually found Remy on the roof of the mansion's east wing, sitting with his legs dangling over the gutter, arms crossed tightly over his chest, staring out over the grounds. If Hank had seen anyone else sitting that closely to the edge, he might've been worried. But he had confidence in Remy's skills, and knew that even if the young Cajun were to fall, his natural agility and quick thinking would ensure he was not injured.

Hearing Hank's claws click against the tiles of the roof, Remy turned around slowly, and regarded Hank with an even eyed gaze. "Je regrette, Henri. I don' have any bourbon to cry in. I'll let you know when I refill m'stock, enh?"

Hank crossed the length of copper tiled roof that separated them, and crouched next to Remy, casting a casual eye over the view before them. He didn't say anything. Although he was not very well versed in matters of psychology, he nonetheless felt with a strange conviction that Remy should be the first one to bring up what had happened. It did occur to him that he could grow old and waste away while waiting, but, nonetheless, it seemed like a good idea.

Remy cleared his throat, reached into one of many pockets in his ever-present duster, and pulled out a creased pack of marlboros. Being the gentleman he was, he offered one to Hank (who politely declined), before lighting his own with his fingertip. He puffed quietly on the cigarette, leaned back on his elbows and blew smoke rings out into the air.

If Hank didn't know there was something wrong, he might've believed the casual relaxed pose for what Remy intended. But as it was, he noticed the slight tremble to the cigarette held in his fingers, the tense muscles around his mouth and eyes. He itched to say something, anything, to make the younger man feel better, be more comfortable, but he was at a loss as to what that might be, if such words even existed.

He blew out a soft sigh, and settled back on the roof. It really was quiet peaceful up there, he decided. It was no wonder Remy so often retreated to the solitude the roof offered. Hank allowed his eyes to close, letting the various sounds of the grounds wash over him. The crickets singing away in the bushes at ground level, a group of children playing an after school basketball game, the distant sound of someone, most assuredly Logan, revving a motorcycle…

"Wasn't a panic attack."

The words came as a surprise. Hank wasn't expecting a response from Remy this side of the century, and to hear one so soon was astonishing. He turned slightly on the tile, taking in the Cajun's tense profile. "All right, Remy. What was it then?"

The younger man frowned, as though he was actually considering the question. "I dunno. But it wasn't a panic attack, or an anxiety attack, or whatever else y't'ink it was."

Hank nodded to himself. "Okay. But you do understand why I feel it necessary to find out exactly what it was. Until we know what caused the episode, and fix it, the Professor and Scott will not allow you to take part in any training sessions or missions."

Remy looked over sharply. It wasn't like Hank to make empty threats. He had no doubt that the consequences he mentioned were real, but he was having a hard time caring in light of all that had just gone on.

"I ain't been on a mission since I got back, Henri. What makes y't'ink I miss 'em now, let alone in the near future?"

Hank sighed, and allowed his chin to drop to his chest. "You're not fooling me, Remy," he said, his words muffled by his chest. "I know you are an intensely private, and proud man. I know both these forces are pushing at each other. You don't want to let anybody in, but at the same time, you don't want to admit defeat. For you, not being allowed to go on missions isn't an issue of like or dislike. It's all about pride. You hate being told you can't do something. But I have to tell you. The Professor is quite adamant on these conditions. I'm afraid you can't charm yourself out of this situation. The only way to satisfy the Charles, and myself, is to submit for a complete physical, preferably sooner rather than later."

Remy was silent. He lied back on the tiles, hands folded on his stomach while puffing quietly on the cigarette. He seemed to be mulling over Hank's proposition, but the doctor wasn't about to make any assumptions. The Cajun was extremely difficult to read; as far as Hank understood, even telepaths had a hard time getting a reading on him. And as far as negotiations went, Hank knew he was supporting a very weak argument. There was nothing he could offer Remy that the man didn't already have, or had never desired to possess. He could only hope that the Cajun would make the mature decision, and side with his health for once.

Although, he didn't seem too concerned about it. In the time Hank had been pondering the situation, Remy had lit up a second cigarette, and was now sucking happily away on it.

"I don't believe I have to tell you how harmful smoking it to your health."

Remy looked over in astonishment. "Y'don't say. Never heard dat one b'fore. Next t'ing, dey'll be tellin' people it causes cancer or somet'in'."

He smirked in self-satisfaction, and turned back to regard the view, cigarette held loosely between his lips.

Hank was not amused. "Remy, you can use all the sarcasm in the world, and the Shi'ar Kingdom besides, but I'm not going away. I'm not going to let you sabotage your life again."

Remy didn't respond for a long minute. Instead, he turned his head away from Hank, chin against the lapel of his duster as though he were trying to hide his face. Hank was overcome with an inexplicable urge to rest a hand on the younger man's shoulder, provide the kind of silent support he knew Remy accepted from Ororo, and sometimes Jean. But Hank was not a fool. He knew full well that touching the Cajun at this point, or any point really, would likely end in loss of one or more limbs. But nonetheless, Remy LeBeau seemed to inspire a sort of latent fatherly concern in Hank, something he had never felt before, certainly not in the company of someone who so clearly did not want him around. There was something in Remy's eyes, he decided; some kind of emotion that he could name no easier than he could describe. Whatever it is, something in Hank commiserated with it, and wanted to help. Too bad Remy didn't accept the help of others.

"Dis ain't gonna work," Remy replied finally. "Y'can't use any o'dat emotional shit to get me to do whatevah it is y'want. It might work on de other X-Men, but not dis ol' Cajun. Tell de Prof he can shove his missions where de sun don' shine."

Without another word, Remy rose with a surprising grace, considering not only what he had been through during the past hour, but also given the steepness and slight slippery quality of the copper tiles. He moved past Hank towards the trellis, and disappeared over the edge of the roof.

Hank watched him go with a crestfallen look. He had lost a battle, but the war was far from over. He would get the younger mutant to the med-bay one way or another. He just wished fervently that when it happened, Remy came under his own power, and not carried in on a stretcher.


End file.
